Rwanda
by Mike-045
Summary: A bad situation gets worse as old enemies make the troubled land their battlefield as well. Possible Spoilers for several books, as well as The Warrior.
1. Chapter One The Chapel

Disclaimer: I do not own The Dresden Files.

Father Roarke Douglas stood to the side of the stone doorway, sidearm held before him in a practiced position. His was a classic shooter's position, arms firm and straight. The pistol itself was immaculately maintained and clean, the whole contraption painted a non-reflective matte black.

He was protecting his parishioners, his flock, against the genocide exploding outside. His charges, normally numbering around two dozen, had now grown to more than forty crowding together inside the small stone chapel seeking mutual defense.

Douglas saw shadows dancing around the corner he was guarding and braced himself, eyes staring crisply into the space he knew was about to be occupied. His hands were steady, form solid.

A tall man, visage smothered with evil, burst from around the corner with a machete held above his head. His mouth was open in a howl of obscene joy at the slaughter he was expecting to find.

Douglas pulled the trigger on his sidearm once, and then once again. The first round caught the homicidal native in the throat, abruptly cutting off his scream. The second shot exploded out of the side of his head, catching him on the way down.

The body crashed to the floor, and other men like him shouted in surprise from outside. The encounter had taken all of one second to begin and end.

Roarke didn't bother with checking the clip in his firearm – it had a dozen shots in it, ten now that he'd used two of them. He had two other clips in the pockets of his pants and a knife in his boot.

Someone outside lit up the doorway with an assault rifle – likely a Kalashnikov. The high-powered rounds splintered into the old stone walls, rebounding in all directions.

Douglas retreated back down the hall and around another corner to come into the sanctuary. Almost fifty people were crowded into the relatively small room, mostly weeping women with a stoic father or brother here and there.

Clearing his throat, the priest said to them, "People of the Lord – do not give up hope. We have something which those outside do not – our faith in Him. Our Father. The Lord will deliver us through this trying time, if we but have faith and do not lose hope in the Almighty." His voice was calm and reassuring, rising above the cacophony of frantic voices without him having to shout.

His flock heeded his call, and turned silently to prayer. Still, many of them cried and whispered quietly.

It was over this silence that Roarke was able to hear a terrible howling from outside. It was utterly unlike anything he had heard in the natural animal world – but he had heard it, yes. The shouts outside turned to screams as the strange, somehow unholy barks and yelps grew in number and volume.

Roarke furrowed his brow and turned back the way he'd come, towards the open door. The corpse was accompanied by another – a different man, shirtless, with a look of stark fear and terror on his face. His hand was white-knuckled on a dirty machete, the other arm missing from the elbow down. One of his other legs was gone, a trail of blood leading his way outside.

Roarke made to peek around the corner to see what was behind the man when it came at him. The beast was the size of a German shepherd, hairless all over its pale form. Tusks and teeth protruded wildly from its gaping maw, bloody saliva slinging around the small corridor.

Somehow maintaining his composure, Douglas sprang back from this new monstrosity, training his pistol on the spot above its left eye – its eyes were on the sides of its head, like a boar – and fired rapidly into his target. Blood darker than a human's spattered from the exit wounds and onto the walls, floor, and corpses. The beast fell away from Douglas and convulsed, then lay still.

Roarke carefully stepped over the growing pile of bodies, changing the clip in his weapon along the way.

The scene outside was one worthy of Dante. More of the creatures – more than ten – were fighting over the bodies of a few of the native warriors, whose bodies were shredded and torn almost beyond recognition. A few men in dark fatigues carrying rifles sprinted across the yard, racing from one copse of trees to the opposite side in pursuit of a few fleeing survivors.

Father Douglas waited in the shadows of his church, pistol aimed at the nearest monster. His chiseled features were stark as granite, eyes colder than ice. After a few minutes the dark-clad men called off most of their beasts and continued their rampage into the town, killing rebel and unlucky innocent alike.

Two of the beasts were left, and Roarke made to make his move in destroying them. But someone beat him to it.

A figure ran into the clearing with a drawn sword, the slender blade marking it as a katana. It was a wizened old man, wearing a set of Kevlar armour and a white cloak embroidered with a scarlet cross on the left breast.

He fell upon the feasting beasts silently, slicing one down the flank from haunch to shoulder. The other spun on him, hissing, but the seemingly-frail man leapt back from its mouth with ease. He shifted his weight backwards, as the monster lunged forward, then forward before it could recover. His slim sword pierced the beast's neck and stabbed inward to where the vital organs were cradled, killing it instantly.

Slicing the crippled thing's neck in mercy, the old warrior turned to Roarke and softly said, "Hello, Father Douglas."

Roarke nodded and answered, "Good morning, Shiro."


	2. Chapter Two Moving Out

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Dresden Files, or any characters, ideas, or intellectual property found within the works of Jim Butcher.**

* * *

"What are you doing in Rwanda, Shiro?" Roarke was sitting on the ground, wrapping a bandage around a young boy's leg that had been shredded by shrapnel.

The old Japanese man smiled wanly and replied, "The Lord saw fit for me to be here. This genocide has led to hundreds of thousands of deaths, and even more have been wounded and maimed by it. Someone had to intervene." His bittersweet smile turned down into a thoughtful frown. "And it seems there is more at work here than the Church previously believed."

Roarke stood up, gently holding the little boy down to keep him from further injuring himself. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Those beasts outside. We've fought them before."

"Yes. We have."

"Them."

"Yes. They are here."

Roarke hissed through his teeth, idly fingering the holster his sidearm was kept in on his belt. His mind was racing, drawing conclusions and weaving the various threads together into a cohesive whole.

"They are at fault for the genocide, then?" There was a slight undertone of doubt to his voice, but Roarke knew better than to show it on his face. His parishioners were under enough stress to see their only pillar of fortitude falter.

Shiro nodded his head slowly, "Of that I am not wholly sure. There has always been intolerance and violence here, yes?" He waited for Roarke's confirmation, then continued, "I fear that they have instigated it into full-on warfare in the region."

"Then why were their thralls and beasts attacking the villagers, if those men were their pawns," questioned Roarke.

Shiro shrugged, "Perhaps there is disunion in their ranks. It has happened before. Such is their lot, to make that which is already a bad thing worse, I suppose."

The old Knight of the Cross turned on his heel and strode away from Roarke, walking amidst the prone or sitting figures inside the church. He spoke as he stepped, saying, "Just as it is our lot, Father, to take a stand when and where no others will – or can. We must be strong for those that are not. It is our lot to take that which is a bad thing and to make it better and good, or as close to as we can get."

He turned again, at the doorway now, to look at Roarke across the room and smiled with glittering eyes. "For that is our mission, and our task. We will succeed. There are others in the hunt, Father, and they will be joining us soon. I suggest that we leave your flock in their care while you and I follow those men from earlier to wherever their lair is." He paused for breath, coughing a little at the sudden outburst of emotion. "For where their lair is, so is their master. I suggest that we hurry."

* * *

Roarke crouched into the brush alongside the road, a rifle cradled in his hands. He'd taken it from one of the bodies back in front of the Church after Shiro's reinforcements showed up. It had a fairly sizeable clip to it, a telescopic scope, and elongated barrel. Roarke was not familiar with the make of the weapon, but its purpose was clear to him.

Shiro stood a few yards ahead of him in the undergrowth, his sword drawn. The blade was bright and cold as winter snow, though somehow it managed to blend into the heavy foliage around them.

A branch snapped about twenty feet from them. Shiro froze, his katana held in a textbook-perfect position, ready to either swing down, parry an enemy's weapon, or stab forward into them. Roarke had fallen to a knee and shouldered the rifle in one motion; he was now peering into the ferns, trying to listen as well as scope out the terrain. There was no further sound. Seconds dragged by.

Suddenly, a figure in black fatigues lunged from the vegetation being Shiro, a wicked-looking combat knife held in its fist. Roarke cursed in French under his breath, swinging the rifle around to bare on the ambusher. He needn't have worried – two more burst from the foliage to strike out at him, and Shiro had already spun on his attacker.

The elderly man nimbly dodged the short blade of his opponent, spinning around him to slash down at the man from above. His katana found purchase, but was stopped by a plate of ceramic armour underneath the fatigues. The man laughed inarticulately and slugged a fist at Shiro's face. Shiro leapt away from him, an attempt at gutting him proving as futile as the previous strike.

Roarke downed his first man with a double-tap to the head, but was surprised to find him only stunned rather than killed outright as the first round rebounded off of his helmet and the second following suite. The second man lifted a shotgun at him, the barrel sawed off for ease of use in the cramped quarters. Roarke slung the stock of his rifle around and into his throat, causing him to collapse to the ground. He executed both men by slitting their throats with his boot-knife.

Shiro finished off his hamstrung opponent by beheading him. Shaking his head sadly, the wizened Knight motioned for Roarke to join him.

The two holy warriors stared down at the face of one of the dead men, his mouth agape. There was no tongue in it, only a long-healed wound.

Roarke whispered, "Denarians."


End file.
